


Dawn of the Dead

by till-hammer (itsahardyparty)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Blood and Gore, Organ Trail AU, POV Second Person, Road Trip, Zombie Apocalypse, but I'm a boy so, i mean technically the OC is supposed to be gender neutral, lets see how it goes, like a VIDYA GAME, probably, started writing this because I played Organ Trail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 16:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsahardyparty/pseuds/till-hammer
Summary: When the apocalypse comes in the form of a zombie epidemic, you and the six boys need to travel across the country to a safe haven in California. The only problem is, will you be able to survive long enough to get there?





	Dawn of the Dead

It had been a simple decision, really. You had the car, and among the six of them, they had food, guns, ammunition, and scrap parts. They got to do something other than _walk_ to the other side of the country, and you got to chauffeur around six sweaty Germans in exchange for extra hands and more firepower. To be fair, most of them are perfectly polite, and very grateful that you're willing to tote them around, and, in all honesty, it's nice to have company for once.

You're sitting up front (and driving, duh), and Richard, the chain-smoking perfectionist, had called shotgun before anybody else, so he's right up front with you. Till, a great big bear of a man, is behind you, and squished in beside him are Paul, who is considerably shorter and about half his width, and Oliver, who is so tall you're convinced he was a tree in a past life. In the back row are Flake, another quiet, tall, lanky man, and Schneider, who seemed very nice, but at his wits' end with these idiots. 

"Let's sing a song," Paul suggests, grinning impishly, and you begin to think that he isn't quite as childlike and innocent as you'd first thought. In fact, you think he might be the devil.

"If you open your mouth I am going to slit your throat," Schneider hisses behind him.

The six of them really are sort of strange, but you're also sort of strange. Besides, it's the apocalypse--who cares about normalcy?

You're all cooking in that car, even though it's early, and you aren't even south of Pittsburgh. Part of the end of your world, apparently, is severe climate fluctuation, and you sure aren't happy about it. 

"Can you roll down a window?" Olli asks quietly, and his voice sounds stifled by the humidity.

"Don't, we'll all get radiation poisoning."

You turn around to look at Flake, because that just _isn't true_ , and crack a window to allow some airflow.

"You're going to get us killed," he sniffs, though he doesn't seem that upset about it.

"I'd rather be dead and have fresh air than bake to death."

"And radiation poisoning kills slowly," Paul adds brightly.

Till, Olli, and Richard all turn to glare at him. Schneider's head drops back against the worn out headrest. This had been shaping up to be a long trip when you were all alone, and you're honestly hoping that everyone will settle down soon. This is exhausting. 

The station wagon itself had come into your possession via an elderly former priest you'd encountered when you were still living in New York. His name was Clements, though for a while, you'd insisted on calling him "Father Gallagher." Although he was actually from the church in your neighborhood, you hadn't even known about him until the apocalypse had actually arrived, and when it had, it had broken down your door. Even the bustling population of Queens was no match for a zombie outbreak. Neighborhoods were looted en masse as people fled--unfortunately, the bodegas seemed to have taken the most severe hit. Anybody who was smart got out, or at least tried, because once that first green man showed up, it was all over. 

Avoiding contact with them was all but impossible, too. Ironically, you often had to encounter them if you wanted to stay alive. Scavenging for food and parts is an invaluable skill, and zombie encounters are why you carry firearms. Clements' hadn't saved him, though. Zombie bites are a death sentence, and he had asked you to put him down mercifully. 

He'd been a good man, and it was a shame to see him go. The world before this was probably a better place with him in it.

Along with his journal and some really killer advice, he'd left you the station wagon and all its supplies. It's an old model, but it moves, so it works. The space is all optimized, too, which was a little project you'd helped him with. And once the Germans had joined you, there had been no room for haphazard stacking, so you'd had to carve out some extra storage space underneath seats and _pack_ the trunk. Basically, any part of the car that wasn't _essential_ to its function or form had been stripped out and stored in the plastic bin labeled "SCRAP." It was the end of the world, but that was no excuse not to be organized. 

Once the novelty of being passengers in a moving car had worn off, and the heat had caused mass lethargy, the car was filled with the awkward silence of strangers. Or rather, six good friends and one stranger. 

"You guys are German," you tell them, as if they don't know they're German. 

"Yes," Flake responds shortly. "You're very observant. Did you study at Harvard?"

That pulls a snicker out of Till, and a grin out of you, and suddenly the uncomfortable fog has dissipated. At least they weren't all _so_ polite. 

"Are you from New York?" Richard asks, peeking over at you. "Or did you come from somewhere else?"

You nod. "Born and raised. In Queens, so not the _city_ part of the city, but..."

Richard just sighs, crystalline eyes far away with the vision of the legendary Times Square. "I love New York City."

Finally armed with a topic of conversation, you glance in the rearview to gauge the rest of the party's interest. "You guys ever been?"

"I have," Till offers quietly. "I don't like it as much as Richard does. Sorry."

You shrug. "It's not for everyone."

"But nobody loves New York City as much as Richard," Paul points out, that playful grin peeking out again, and this time, it's quite a welcome sight. "He would live there in a box if he had no other choice."

"But then where would he keep his hair gel?" Schneider adds, and a few of them giggle at how offended Richard looks. 

Creature comforts weren't necessarily an uncommon sight in the face of annihilation. You'd seen lots of people walk around with full faces of makeup, just because putting it on provided some kind of stability. Hair gel probably did that for Richard. Everyone has something, even if they don't know it. 

"So, we should probably talk business," you murmur, looking around at all of them. Aside from the quick introductions, you didn't really _know_ anything of substance about them. And, although they seemed perfectly nice, and you would have loved to get a beer with them were the world not falling apart, the survival of as many of you as possible is tantamount. 

"What kind of business?" Richard asks immediately, voice laced with deep suspicion. Perhaps not a New Yorker by birth, but a New Yorker at heart. 

You shrug. "Survival and shit. Like...which of you is the best shot?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Till's hand slowly go up. "You? Till, right?"

Flake nods. "That's true. He hunts game."

"You got a gun?"

He nods, holding up his hunting rifle. 

"Excellent." You survey the boys through the rearview. "The rest of you. Marketable skills?"

"What are _your_ marketable skills?" Richard demands. 

You turn to stare at him. "You wanna get out of _my_ car, _walk_ to California, then ask me that again? Fuck off."

For once, he doesn't have an appropriate answer, so he just chooses not to respond. 

"Well?" You nudge again. "How have you survived so far?"

"Oliver is a good scavenger," Till offers, glancing back at Olli. "He always comes back with a lot."

"That's because my arms are long, I can carry more," Olli protests. "Besides, you usually cover me. I wouldn't get as much if you weren't killing greens."

"Flake can treat injuries," Paul confides in me, leaning in as if this were a secret of the highest importance. "He was supposed to be a _Doktor_ before the end of the world."

You raise your eyebrows. That would certainly be useful. "What can _you_ do?"

Paul grins proudly. "I have the best talent of all. _Ghost stories_ around the campfire."

Richard snorts. "That's not true. Well, it _is_ , but he has better skills than that. He's a very good looter."

" _Anybody_ can loot!" 

"Yes, but _you_ always know just where to look. It's very unsettling, actually. And he always finds money, too."

"Richard is like a savant," Flake pipes up from the backseat, and Schneider nods.

"He can fix machines and stuff. He can probably fix up the car."

"Don't call me a savant."

"That's a compliment, it means you're intelligent."

You point at Richard, the goth disaster, a little surprised. " _You_ can fix my car?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Probably. Most things work the same way, more or less, y'know?"

"See?" Flake gestures at Richard. "He says stupid things like that, and then he can build a microwave from car parts."

You blink. "Can he actually do that?"

"Well, he never has, but I think he probably could. Maybe."

"Okay, well...we don't need a microwave, but I'll keep that in mind. What can _he_ do?" You look in the rearview at Schneider.

"Schneider is the best navigator," Olli boasts on his behalf. "We never, ever get lost when he has the map."

You pull the car over a little suddenly, and Flake complains when his head bounces off the window. 

"What are you doing?"

You point at Richard. "You, out. Schwartzer--"

_"Schneider."_

"Schneider. He gets shotgun."

"What?" Richard squints at you. "I _called_ the shotgun. It is _mine._ "

"Not anymore. Schnitzel gets it."

"But he's all the way in the back."

You rest your elbow easily on the wheel and pull out a pack of cigarettes. "Then I guess we're here forever, huh? That sucks."

Olli blinks, then opens his door and clambers out, and you begin to like him immensely. "We ought to fold the seats down, then--come on."

Paul wriggles out as well, and Till gets out the other door, walking around the car to peer owlishly into Richard's window. "Come on, _Scholle._ "

"No."

Paul takes Schneider's hands and helps him climb over the middle row of seats. "I'll take your spot! Flake and I have to catch up."

Till pats him on the head, grinning. "And you are so little. You fit perfectly."

Paul giggles and chides him half-assedly, before crawling in the back and practically landing on Flake's lap. "I'm sure you missed me horribly."

Flake rolls his eyes lightly, but can't bring himself to glare at Paul completely. "Just get in."

"Richard, come on. Get out," Till goads gently, tugging the car door open lightly. "This is for the best. Schneider will be able to navigate."

Richard stares at you, then Schneider, then straight into Till's great big, sad, puppy dog eyes. And then he sighs in defeat. "Ugh. Fine."

"Thank you, Richard." You raise your eyebrows to show that you mean it, and then Schneider takes the passenger seat. Now, Richard is behind you, squished between Till and the door, and Olli is on Till's other side. "Alright, let's go. I wanna get somewhere populated before sundown."

Sunset was when the zombies came out in hoards. It was practical to get to a safe place, be it a town or some kind of shelter, then lock yourself in your car and get some shut-eye. You refuse to sleep roadside anymore--once you'd woken up to a zombie staring at you through the car window, its eyes empty and lifeless, and its jaw hanging off on one side. They were, in fact, green up close. A combination of post-death bloating and rot will do that. They don't scare you like they used to, but still, you prefer to keep yourself at a safe distance.

You puff on your cigarette, keeping one eye on the road and the other on the roadside. Sometimes there were valuables, abandoned cars, or even makeshift grave sites. The gravestones with the most names on them were the saddest: you knew someone had been put down by their family or their party. People had gotten in the habit of signing one another's stones when they had to kill them, or lost them to a disease or an accident--it gave some humanity to the whole ordeal. You already had a plan for what you wanted in the event of your death. If you were bitten, you want to be put down mercifully and then buried in a very deep grave. Your possibly imminent death isn't something you enjoy thinking about, but you do it often enough out of necessity that it doesn't seem so daunting anymore. Besides, the reality of the situation is good to have in the back of your mind: no fuel, you die. Car breaks and can't be fixed, you die. No ammo, you die. You run out of food, you die--and you would have to keep an eye on that stock now that your party size had just increased sixfold.

Richard eyes the sky as the sun begins to set. "Wouldn't it make more sense to drive at night, while the zombies are out, and then scavenge during the day?"

"It's possible, but I try to avoid it."

"Why?" 

"I've had the car mobbed before." You take a deep drag of your cigarette, and blow the smoke out the open window. "Sound of the motor attracts them."

Flake cocks his head. "But they're all falling apart. What difference does it make if they surround your car?"

"One or two is manageable. But they're still strong, and if there's a hundred or two of them, they can actually fuck up the car and even injure us."

The resulting silence tells you that none of them have ever been mobbed by zombies before, and you dearly hope that it stays that way. The only real benefit to walking was that you didn't make too much noise, but it also left you slow and unprotected. Most people would take a car any day. 

The lights up ahead indicate that you're getting closer to a populated area, and you sigh. It was getting dark quickly, and you wanted to be around other people and stretch your legs, maybe even start a small fire. The heat had waned, and the open window invites a chilled breeze to graze the back of your neck. It's such a relief to not be sweating anymore. The fresh, dry air seems to lift everyone's spirits a little, and you can even hear Paul let out a luxurious, dramatic sigh in the back seat. 

"Can we open another window?" Olli asks. 

"Yeah, go for it. We're almost there anyway."

Olli and Richard lean down on their respective sides to open the station wagon's windows. They were operated with a manual crank, so they had to spin a handle on the inside of the car door to get the windows to go up or down. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief and seems to relax, and you even allow yourself to sink back into the seat and rest one hand on top of the steering wheel, relishing the feeling of the cool air and the velvety smoke. 

"Paul, you got any of those songs for us?"

Paul straightens up a little, that sunshiney grin plastered across his round face. He starts to sing an old German song that you don't know, but they certainly do, because one by one, they all join in. There is no concern for vocal talent, just six friends sharing a song together, and you, the seventh, smiling warmly and making some attempt to sing along. The song fills the car and swells until it bursts, pouring out the open windows and out on the road, and up into the starry sky. You feel so light, weightless even, as if the music itself is carrying you to your destination. 

You get closer, and closer, until you can see it--an abandoned shopping mall, come into view.

And then you stop singing.

Till is the first to notice, and pokes his head forward, between you and Schneider. "What is the matter?"

You slow the car down, and Schneider and Flake's singing falter as well. "Look."

Outside the mall, there were crowds of humanoid figures, milling around and congesting the entrance. 

"Lots of people," Schneider murmurs. "Do you think it will be too crowded for us?"

You swallow, reaching for your gun. "Those aren't people--" You jump as something connects heavily with the trunk of the car, the metallic _THUNK_ rattling your bones.

"Windows up NOW!"

Richard and Olli hurry to crank the windows back up, and Paul screams when a zombie hurtles forward and sticks its decaying arm through the gap. You jump up on the seat and level your shotgun at your shoulder, squeezing one eye shut. "Oliver, DUCK."

"What--"

Till grabs Olli and nearly pulls him under the seat as you fire your gun, spider-webbing the window and blowing the green's arm clean off at the elbow. 

"DRIVE!" Schneider screams, and you certainly don't have to be told twice. You set the gun in your lap, drop back down into your seat, and stomp on the gas pedal. Everyone nearly gets whiplash as the station wagon springs back into motion, plowing over several zombies as you approach the mall. 

"Should we shoot at them?" Flake shouts over the noise of the undead hitting the hood of the car. 

"No, fuck it, there's way too many--we'll plow them and repair the car later!"

You slam on the gas again and the wagon's engine roars in protest, jerking forward and colliding with a small hoard of about twenty zombies. You all cringe as you hear ribcages crunch underneath the old tires, and Till frowns when one very distinctly pops. 

"Oh, fuck!" Richard jumps away from the window, grabbing Till's gun when a zombie _sticks_ to the glass, its rotted eye hanging out of the socket. 

"We're almost there, just one more--SHIT!"

"FUCK!" You scream and cut the steering wheel all the way to the left when you see a tight crowd of about _fifty_ , fishtailing wildly before skidding horizontally. You tuck your head as the car crushes about half of them, then slam on the gas as soon as you restabilize so you can make it into the parking lot. 

Once it's safe, and the gate is closed behind you, you release the breath you'd been holding and sink into the seat. Your legs feel unpleasantly like gelatin, and if you had to walk anywhere right away, you might buckle. "Okay," you pant quietly, peeking back at the boys. "Everyone good?"

Everyone stares back at you, caught somewhere between fear and reverence. Olli has a couple of scratches from the broken glass, and Paul is still holding his seatbelt for dear life. 

Till slowly raises his hand. "I think I have to vomit."

You nod, because that's a respectable reaction. "Don't do it in my fucking car."

Olli blinks at you. "What now?"

You draw a deep breath, resting the gun back between the seats and pushing a hand through your hair. "We fix the car, man."

Richard pops open the door, shifting out so Till can make his dignified walk of shame to go throw up in the bushes. 

Flake raises his hand next. "...do we have to fix the car _now_? Can we...stay here a bit?"

You nod, thankful that someone else wanted to catch their breath. "We sure can."


End file.
